


Perfect Pitch

by DickWhitmansCat



Category: Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickWhitmansCat/pseuds/DickWhitmansCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written on a dare for some comment-a-thon at some point (my memory is hazy, alas).</p><p>
  <i>Eli Gold has three vices...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Pitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orbythesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbythesea/gifts).



Eli Gold has three vices. 

One's dark and sinewy, all soft curves and honey-timbred voice, radiating class and grace.

The next wears a mask of sophistication but burns you if you consume it.

The last is Alicia Florrick.

When he thinks of her, he immediately turns to the others.

("There's a name for this," he thinks, critically, unkindly. "Masochism.")

Unexpected shared smiles he files away, poured later into perfecting the middle section of Dave Brubeck's "In Your Own Sweet Way", where the quick, tart thirds give way to that sort of intoxicating sweet return with the glissandos (oh, how he loves the glissandos) and the octaves that feel like a declaration of intent ( _it's not a game -- maybe it never was?_.) Except it ends as it always does, in E flat minor; resignation and retreat. He wishes he had the improvisational skills to rewrite the ending, but his training was in the art of rules, not in the art of breaking them. He pours himself a glass of scotch and calls it a night.

Another week, another set of conversations heavy with implications and light on consequence (or is it the other way around?) He's distracted by the thought of what pitch her last laugh was (it was a semitone off from E flat, if the sound ringing in his ear is true) when his candidate (his boss? his employee? his rival?) appears in the doorway. _Square shoulders, empty smile. Big hands._ "Heading home for the night. Penny for your thoughts?"

"You play an instrument, Peter?" 

The candidate's bemused smile says it all. "Not really. Trombone, as a kid. I was terrible. Why?"

A shake of the head, a shrug. "No real reason." Smile. "Good night." 

Two hours and another glass of scotch later, he's fantasizing kinetically, wondering if fucking her feels anything like measure 57 of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", the turning point when it rises and falls like a slow, deep breath. "Yeah, fuck you," he mumbles. He idly traces the A in STEINWAY & SONS with his finger, not sure if he's cursing Beethoven's imagination or his own.

Every part of her that creeps into his consciousness and stays he exorcises somehow. Her confidences translate into Chopin; the warm darkness in her eyes Satie. It can't just be done physically, though he sees to that, too. The mere thought of the heat of her breath on his face finishes him off as his hand works furiously in the chilly darkness of his room. 

It's a spiritual exorcism, he believes. It needs to be done.

Weeks later, they're killing time as she's doing him a favor ( _me, of all people_ ) and she asks a personal question.

"What do you do when you're not doing this?" she asks.

"I play the piano," he says, smiling but not quite meeting her eyes. "I trained, years ago, but it's a really competitive world, classical music. So I figured I'd go into something safe, quiet and devoid of conflict. Politics."

She laughs again, and it's a pure E flat. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

"I'd love to hear you play someday," she murmurs. 

His eyes meet hers and he smiles. "Someday," he echoes, and then the moment's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Dave Brubeck's "In Your Own Sweet Way": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEshmt96ZwM
> 
> M. 57 of "Moonlight Sonata" starts at 4:39 here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0


End file.
